


Inked

by xDx



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Mating, almost failwolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xDx/pseuds/xDx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his eighteenth birthday, Stiles secretly gets a tattoo. Derek cannot stand not knowing what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inked

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr (geekfighter), the land where I occasionally write drabbles or meta about these characters I love and adore.

They could all smell it, the weekend after Stiles's eighteenth birthday. No matter how Erica tried to trick him into taking his shirt off, or threaten him physically more than she had in almost a year, Stiles would not relent and show them.

It was driving Derek fucking crazy.

Before the slow-healing smell of healing skin and the unfamiliar scent of wet ink, the alpha had been able to carefully compartmentalize and ignore all the vague stirrings he'd been feeling towards the teen. Now...

Now, it was all he could do to stop himself from lying awake at night imagining it, whatever it was. When he spared it a thought during the daylight hours, he tried to remember getting his own tattoo—how pungent the ink, and whether he could gauge the size of it comparatively after all these years.

Three weeks after it The Incident, the betas decided to start a betting pool on both what it was and what outrageous shenanigans they could pull to finally disrobe Stiles and reveal his new ink to the world.

Erica renewed her efforts immediately, casually dumping her lemonade onto his white shirt (he carried spares in his Jeep now, and preferred to change in the privacy of the bathroom, dammit) and failing that, doused him with a hose in the hopes of wet-tshirt-contest levels of visibility (he squawked indignantly and rushed to leave, covering his nipples along the way).

Derek used his Alpha voice to reign her in, telling her definitively that she'd lost the bet, and for God's sake he could only take so much of this.

Isaac was more accommodating, his attempts staying in the realm of the plausibility through (particularly handsy) play fighting and clothing-displacing puppy piles. If Stiles noticed that his shirt rode up more often than not, he hadn't complained—although typically he go twitchy and restless quickly, usually just before Derek could settle in properly to trade scents.

After a week of watching Isaac and Stiles's new-found (physical) closeness, Derek narrowed his eyes across the breakfast bar at the curly-haired beta and informed him he was also done.

Boyd, in his quiet wisdom, had the best plan yet. After a long day of BHCC classes, he snuck Stiles out to a fringe bar (one the Sheriff was unlikely to bust for an underage drinking sweep) and piled him with rum and Coke until the teen was pleasantly tipsy. The mostly straight-forward approach yielded entertainment and some semblance of spastic explanation.

The morning after, Boyd approached Derek with a look meant to quell objections and said, “I'm not telling you.”

Still, Derek had one last option to explore before... he did whatever he would do. Almost six weeks after The Incident, he intercepted Scott heading home to his and Stiles's apartment after leaving the animal clinic one night. Casually, Derek offered to buy him dinner. A friendly dinner between packmates at Scott's favorite diner, in Scott's favorite booth, piled with Scott's favorite foods.

“So,” Derek began, “how's life?”

“Look, Stiles just texted me 'Stay strong,' and that I'm not allowed to tell you anything,” Scott replied, happily munching on a few curly fries.

“Dammit!” Derek exclaimed, his fists banging on the table loudly. Half the diner glanced over at them, quickly dismissing the town black sheep. Feeling vindictive, Derek snatched the rest of the fries and shoved them in his mouth as quickly as he could manage with some semblance of dignity. He was the Alpha. This shit was ridiculous.

“If it's any consolation, I think it's really dumb,” Scott offered, slurping his chocolate milkshake loudly. It wasn't consoling.

Eight weeks after The Incident, on Spring Break from college classes, Derek invited the pack on an all-expense paid road trip to the coast. Being teenagers, they hastened to agree, and found themselves piling into Stiles's Jeep and Melissa's car (by now, everyone had gotten over the weirdness that was Sheriff Stilinski and Melissa McCall dating, especially when it meant Scott got to borrow the car more often).

The pack plus Allison checked into a four bedroom bungalow that backed up to a long stretch of private beach. When Derek herded them inside, their excitement was vibrating in the air. Erica and Allison took a room, Boyd and Isaac, Scott and Stiles, and Derek found himself alone in what was conceivably the master by himself.

Their first afternoon was spent unpacking and unwinding. Derek found himself making an army's worth of peanut butter sandwiches while the rest of his pack played some seemingly random game called Apples to Apples. After Stiles won a second round, he wandered over to Derek to help.

“I'm on to you, Sourwolf,” Stiles intoned lightly, raking apple butter across a slice of wheat bread. Derek's shoulders hunched together, tense. “We've finally domesticated you.” Derek relaxed slightly.

“I do nice things for you all the time,” Derek pointed out, his eyebrows dipping dangerously. Stiles hummed thoughtfully before licking the knife languidly and carrying his plate full of sandwiches over to the dining table. Derek stared at the utensil, despairing, then trailed after him.

The next morning broke brightly, light shining through the light netting curtains and filling the house. The pack was uncharacteristically pleasant for such an early hour, with only one slight skirmish over claiming coffee cups. Derek sat back and waited for the inevitable suggestion, the hint of a smile spreading on his face.

It was Erica who finally demanded they visit the perfectly good ocean outside their back door. Derek decided Erica was his favorite today. They planned to head out around eleven, leaving a couple hours for showers, breakfast, and the inevitable foot-dragging that came with youth. (Derek was above such things, he thought, as he shuffled back under the plush bedding in the master.)

The owners of the house had prepared for beach-goers, leaving folding chairs and an oversized umbrella propped under the veranda. Derek grinned around at his puppies, happily trotting across the scorching sand barefoot as they made their way towards the water.

When they had settled their chairs, Isaac struggling with Scott to shove the umbrella into the tightly packed sand, Derek finally unleashed his brilliant plan—and his SPF 30 secret weapon.

“Hey, Stiles,” the alpha called tonelessly. “You need some sunblock.” Stiles halted from where he was almost skipping with Scott to the water's edge. With a longing look at the water, he strode back towards the shaded area where Derek was sitting.

“Yeah, okay, good call,” Stiles admitted begrudgingly. “I'll burn redder than a cooked lobster while all you superpeople just waltz around healing yourselves.” He threw himself onto a towel conveniently opened beside Derek.

“Take of your shirt and I'll do it for you,” Derek offered lightly, gaze intentionally lingering on Boyd swimming towards a distant buoy.

“Uh,” Stiles stuttered, “yeah, okay. Thanks.”

Predictably, he twisted away from Derek as he jerked it over his head quickly. Derek's eyes skated across his exposed back, the only visible marks the smattering of freckles and moles that dotted Stiles's pale skin. Holding back his disappointment, Derek applied the sunblock as efficiently as possible, pointedly ignoring the feel of the skin beneath his fingers.

“I've got the front,” Stiles mumbled, taking the bottle and rubbing the creamy white—Derek derailed that thought, considering the inklessness of his chest instead then looking away, thoughtful. If the tattoo wasn't on his shoulders or back (Erica had guessed he would have a bat symbol there), and wasn't splayed across his chest, that left worryingly little amount of skin unexposed.

As Stiles stood, obviously about to return to the foray of playful betas, Derek surreptitiously inspected his board shorts. That's when he caught a glimpse of dark black ink, what looked like writing, before Stiles adjusted the swimsuit and half-waved in departure.

Thank God, because Derek was close to hyperventilating—because he had finally seen the tattoo, of course, not because the shorts had dipped into almost inappropriateness. The first traces of ink graced the flat expanse of abdomen below the iliac crest, on the left side of the rectus abdominus, probably across the last stretch of external abdominal oblique.

It helped to think distantly in terms he'd learned in anatomy years ago; kept him from completely embarrassing himself, anyway. He tried to think more about muscle groups instead of the fact that he wanted to taste every single one of those muscles as they were on Stiles's body.

By the time his betas threw themselves around him, smelling of wet and happy and sunshine, he had calmed in the salty breeze. They picked their way back to the house, Stiles and Allison looking slightly pink but passably unburned. That night, Derek took an uncharacteristically long shower, but no one complained as he was safely away in the master ensuite. Besides, he was the Alpha.

Their third day at the beach bungalow was plan-free. Naturally, Boyd and Erica gravitated to each other and a hammock out back. Allison and Scott dragged themselves back out to the water, where Derek could occasionally hear them laughing and shouting joyously. That left him, Isaac, and Stiles to lounge around comfortably, shirtless.

The problem with this, of course, was that Stiles was bored. And a bored Stiles meant a Stiles that wanted to drag the two werewolves to the souvenir shops down the road to pick something out for his Dad. Derek rolled his eyes, but eventually gave in and the three made their way to the shop companionably.

When they entered, Isaac hung around the front, eyeing the hemp jewelery display and sniffing at it delicately. Stiles was drawn immediately to the obnoxiously bright Eureka/Humboldt shirts hanging in the back. Derek trailed after him slowly. Stiles picked a shirt that he described as the bright green of radioactive sludge. Then, inexplicably, he pointed at a pair of swim trunks.

“Look, Derek! They're black like your soul.” Derek huffed, rolling his eyes at the younger man's antics. “I actually like these a lot. Maybe I should get some new ones. My old board shorts are getting kinda frayed.” Derek glanced at the shorts then made a noise of agreement, suddenly struck with an idea.

“You should try them on,” Derek told him, his head dipping towards the tiny corner with draped canvas that constituted a dressing area. “I'll bring you other ones. What size are you?” Stiles squeaked out an answer, backing over to the area hesitantly then ducking inside to try on the shorts.

Derek was positively gleeful, grabbing a few pairs that were the right size and a few that were too small before he headed over to the canvas stall. Isaac popped up, scaring the bejeezus out of him, but he stomped on his reaction.

“What's going on?”

“Go away,” Derek hissed lowly, his eyebrows rising imposingly. Isaac arched one of his own then shrugged, meandering back towards the front of the shop to wait impatiently. Derek raised his voice, “Here's a few more to try.” He shoved them in through the drapes awkwardly.

“Uh, these are a little small,” Stiles said slowly.

“They look like they'll fit,” Derek assured him, lying liar that he is. Stiles refrained from comment, and Derek could hear the swish of cloth as he tried a pair on. “Let me see how they look.”

What happened next was an awkward jumble as Derek tried to stick his head inside the canvas enclosure while Stiles simultaneously struggled to keep him absolutely, positively out. With a final squealing squeak, the entire canvas panel rained down atop them.

From the front of the store, Isaac laughed uproariously as Stiles flailed his way from beneath the pile of fabric. When he detangled himself, he glared up at Derek viciously and then left the store abruptly wearing the pink board shorts with purple and white dolphins printed on them Derek had chosen as a joke.

“Um,” Derek offered the room in general, then specifically to the girl behind the counter, “I can pay for those. Also this.” He bent down, picking up the shirt Stiles had chosen for his Dad.  
Derek and Isaac made their way back to the bungalow slowly, Isaac laughing slightly every few moments. Finally, he shook his curly head to dispel the last of the memory, and turned to his alpha.

“Dude, you fucked up.”

“I'm aware,” Derek muttered miserably.

“Why'd you even do that?”

“I wanted to see his stupid fucking tattoo,” Derek growled. He was not stomping, the ground here was just really soft. Isaac stopped walking abruptly, making Derek pause naturally as well.

“Uh, you should talk to him. Apologize for being a creeper or something. I'm going to meet up with Scott and Allison,” Isaac said decisively. Derek looked after him questioningly, but acknowledged that his beta was right and continued towards the beach house with a sigh.

When he arrived, he found the ground floor empty. The only sound he found was Stiles's familiar rabbit-fast heartbeat upstairs. He followed it to the room Stiles was sharing with Scott and knocked softly. For a moment there was silence, then Stiles opened the door for him.

“I got your thing,” Derek told him, holding out the neon green shirt like a peace offering. Stiles blinked, taking it from him with the hint of a smile. “And I'm sorry I'm a dick.” Stiles flushed brightly.

“Yeah, it's fine.”

“It's not, really,” Derek insisted, sighing as he sank down on one of the beds. “This whole thing is really not-fine.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, sitting close with a leg tucked under. Derek let his head fall into his hands, elbows resting on his knees.

“This entire trip was just about... Well, no, that's not true. I wanted the pack to spend Spring Break together, but,” the alpha trailed awkwardly. He seemed to shake himself out of it, sitting up straight and looking over at Stiles. Stiles was watching him, face soft with a half-smile.

“You did good, Sourwolf,” Stiles told him quietly. He shifted around so that he could shuffle his feet against the floor and, watching them intently, continued, “I would've gotten a tattoo a long time ago if I'd known you'd get this bent out of shape about it.”

“You knew this whole time,” Derek accused, eyes narrowed. Stiles grinned at him helplessly.

“Of course I did, you crazy wolf. Except I honestly thought you'd just ask, not try to get me to take my clothes off all the time,” Stiles winked lasciviously, though his growing blush gave him away. Derek ignored it as best he could (not at all).

“Can I see it?” Derek asked him then, leaning forward into his space.

“Okay,” Stiles responded breathlessly. The teen stood awkwardly, unlacing the white cord at the front of his stupid, obnoxious dolphin shorts with shaking hands. Derek forgot to breath, closing his eyes briefly before they reopened of their own accord so as not to miss anything. Stiles hooked his thumb under one side and pulled it down to expose the symbols tattooed onto his skin.

Derek stared. Derek stared, and stared. Derek stared for a long time, and Stiles was probably incredibly uncomfortable, and still Derek stared. Finally, he reached out slowly, giving Stiles time to pull away from the touch if he wanted.

Derek rested his thumb in the center of the triskele. He traced it over the five lines of entirely capitalized text: Stiles's full unadulterated name on one, his social security number the next, his blood type, a line that inexplicably said JEDI KNIGHT, and finally the fifth reading HALE, BEACON HILLS, CA. The triskele sat beside the words, a strange accent.

“Stiles,” Derek exhaled softly. His palm flattened against Stiles's stomach as he gazed up into his eyes, watching the pupils swallow the irises. Stiles's hands reached out to rest on Derek's shoulders. He spoke.

“I read something on the internet one time about soldiers having their blood type tattooed on them to expedite transfusions, or to... to identify the bodies. And then I thought about how they have dogtags, and Jedi Knight is actually a real religion you can declare according to the US Army so I thought... I thought, why not?”

“You have my name tattooed on you,” Derek told him, pulling Stiles forward by the hips so that his face was pressed against the inked skin.

“Just a little bit,” Stiles replied, shuddering, his hands clenching around Derek's shoulders. Derek rubbed his cheek against the soft skin lightly, his chest rumbling in response to Stiles's shuddering gasp.

“This is mine,” Derek mumbled against him. He pulled away from the warmth of contact, gazed evenly up at burnt caramel eyes, had to make him understand. “That's not a Hale family crest, Stiles, it's mine. I chose that.”

“I know,” Stiles replied, eyes half-closed in contentment as he gazed back at the kaleidescope hazel of Derek's eyes. The alpha thought of the books he'd given Stiles, recovered from the fire, and knew he must've worked that out. Maybe a year ago. Maybe two. Derek shivered, surging to his feet to close the space between them.

Their lips met, warm and soft with understanding. They shared breaths, tongues tangling not in a fight for dominance but in an exchange of control. Stiles was not to be commanded, not a beta but bearing the mark of a mate, and was respected even by Derek's wolf as equal. And every part of the alpha wanted to claim his mate.

Derek swiped his tongue across Stiles's bottom lip, tasting. He licked into Stiles's mouth, tongue flicking in and out in a wet pantomime of how he wanted to take his body. Derek pulled away, leaving only enough space to look at the flush painting Stiles's skin.

“Holy God, why are we still wearing pants?” Stiles panted. Derek grinned wolfishly, hooking his hands under Stiles's ass and tossing him onto the bed behind them. Stiles moaned, his limbs spread invitingly. Derek climbed on after him, slotting into the valley between his knees.

They kissed as Stiles clumsily reached out to unlace Derek's board shorts, tongues sliding together. Derek lifted his hips as Stiles pushed them down. They pooled around his knees until Derek sat back abruptly, flinging them to the floor. He watched Stiles force his own off before pressing their bodies firmly together.

One or both of them moaned at the contact. Derek nipped at the corner of Stiles's jaw, down the column of his throat, sucking and biting lightly. His hips pressed down to meet Stiles's, the friction making him groan. As he swirled his tongue around a dusty pink nipple, Stiles whined in the back of his throat.

Their hips moved together, too harsh without lubrication, though neither of them had the sense to stop. Derek could hear every thumping heartbeat, see Stiles's chest as it strained on shallow breaths, feel the younger man twisting apart beneath him. He growled low in his throat, redoubling the thrust of his hips as he slid against the sweat-slick skin.

Stiles gasped, shuddered, came untouched between their stomachs as Derek moved. Derek buried his face at the nape of Stiles's neck, breathing in the smell of release and arousal, of the two of them mixed. With a few short thrusts, he came.

They stayed pressed together for a long while, Stiles taking a nap while Derek enjoyed the feeling of being close to his mate, and protecting him. When Stiles stirred, Derek finally stood, retrieving some wet cloths to wipe the flaky mess off their stomachs. Then he slumped back into bed, and Stiles's arms.

“So, this whole thing was so you could see my tattoo, huh?” Stiles asked, voice teasing.

“Your very morbid tattoo,” Derek growled under his breath.

“Just saying, there were much cheaper ways. Like rum and Coke. Boyd had it out of me in a couple hours.” Stiles carded a hand through Derek's hair once, resting it there comfortably.

“Like this way better,” Derek muttered, rubbing his face against Stiles's skin, marking him with Derek's smell, claiming him again.

“Me, too,” Stiles sighed, going for put-upon but only managing contentment instead. When they both drifted to sleep again, it was with Derek's palm resting lightly against the swirls of past-present-future inked into his mate's skin.

(After much discussion, Boyd was proclaimed bet-winner.)


End file.
